The Last Waltz
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: The butler and housekeeper get side-tracked while serving at The Downton Ball. Hughes/Carson  what else .
1. Chapter 1

**No time frame at all. Not a one-shot if you don't want it to be but saying that no plot has formed in the old head as yet, so ideas welcome. **

"Mr Carson?"

The sound of his name caused him momentarily to jump out of his skin. He had only stopped working for a second at first but now, consulting his watch, saw he had been standing idle for a good five minutes. Stupid of him, there was enough to be done tonight without him loitering around. He turned his head, aware that he needed to respond at some point. The voice had woken him from a haze of thought an he had no idea whose it was. Expecting Thomas staring insolently at finding the butler being remiss in his work, he was quite relieved to find it was Mrs Hughes watching him rather enquiringly.

"In a bit of a day dream?" she asked.

He gave her a lifeless smile that he hoped she would forgive. For some reason or other he felt distinctly melancholy although he had absolutely no reason to. He was just sulking, he supposed, that the night he wasn't feeling to good happened also to be the night when Lord Grantham's family were giving their annual society ball: ergo, their busiest night of the year.

"You could say that," he replied softly.

Collecting empty glasses from one of the sitting rooms, he had caught a hint of the orchestra's playing. It was one of his favourites, well, one of the few he could say he knew; The Carnival of Venice. It reminded him of many another dance he had "attended" in is younger days. A mellifluous sound, he had thought previously and he still thought it. It was beautiful, and quieter than most pieces, for which he was grateful today.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the housekeeper still watching him. Pull yourself together man, he thought.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes," he apologised, suddenly sounding business-like- or at least he hoped.

He turned to look at her, hoping that she wasn't looking at him with that concern he was used to. Usually he welcomed it, but for some reason, it wasn't what he wanted tonight. However, she was not, nor was she looking about ready to beat him around the ears for wasting everyone's time: her manner was relaxed, almost as if she herself were on the verge of a dream-like state as he had been.

"Nice music," she murmured almost to herself.

"Yes," he agreed on the off-chance that she expected him to speak, "Yes, it's beautiful."

Judging by her expression she hadn't been expecting a response but was grateful of one all the same. She smiled rather more happily than he had ever seen her do so before. It occurred to him that whereas when he became reflective it made him melancholy, it made her quietly happy. It was, he supposed, simply the difference between a glass half-empty and a glass half-full.

"Charles?"

Though the use of his first name should- by definition- set off warning bells, it once again lurched him from his reflections and so he responded.

"Hm?" she did seem to be standing on ceremony where coherent sentences were concerned.

"Dance with me?"

It was posed as a question, but in the small voice it came out in it almost sounded like a plea. A rather odd plea too, he thought, though not an altogether unpleasant one.

"Certainly, I'll just whip my old ballroom shoes out and wait for you to put your ball gown on," he quipped. He hoped it didn't sound bitter, he hadn't meant it to.

"Has it ever occurred to you that you're dressed just as smartly as the people you wait on?" she asked.

No, it hadn't.

Seeming to have realised the oddity of her request, she was looking down at the floor, though her body was still presented to him in the forward manner that befitted such an offer. He took a moment's pause and then, throwing propriety's caution to the wind, he simply moved forward and took her hands from where they rested at her sides.

He heard her gasp a little at the first contact but other than that she showed no great reaction to his movement. Swaying back and forth for a second, hardly touching, then she moved closer until her head all but rested on his chest. He wondered if he could put his arm around her without alarming her and was answered when she wrapped one of her little arms around his waist. He breathed a sigh and closed his eyes, resting his head on hers. They weren't so much dancing as holding each other while stepping back and forth. They didn't speak so much as one word until the music faded away and the muffled sound of applause was heard from the ballroom.

He felt her remove her head from his chest, with rather more difficultly than he'd expected. He had to admit, he didn't want it gone either. They stood for a moment idiotically holding hands.

"Elsie?" he tried out her first name.

"Yes?"

"What the devil is wrong with us?"

She laughed hollowly.

"I'm not sure," she replied, "Our dancing skills are certainly wanting something, though."

He half-laughed at that, for some reason wanting to draw her back into his arms although the music had long stopped now. He was about to open his mouth to say something, though he was not quite sure what, when the door was opened. Both turned rather too quickly, as if they had been caught in something they oughtn't to have been, to see who was there.

Standing in the doorway, Miss O'Brien goggled impolitely at the pair. They realised too late that they were still holding hands. The lady's maid seemed to fall dumbstruck for a second but was nevertheless the first one of the three to recover.

"They're moving through to dinner now," she informed them casually as if she had not seen where their hands were, "Mr Bates thought you ought to know."

Elsie was momentarily hopeful but then reminded herself; this was Miss O'Brien. She saw no other option than to match the maid's manner. Gently, she dropped the butler's hands.

"Thank you, Miss O'Brien," she replied pointedly, "We shall be down presently."

Miss O'Brien, though it can't have taken her more than a few seconds of real time, seemed t linger at the door for an age. Elsie could have sworn she saw a glimmer of mirth pass across the wretched girl's face before it was turned away. Mentally cursing the lady's maid's untimely arrival and her own foolishness in being caught in such a position she turned back to Charles, standing just where he had been before. What was happening to them? She could quite think of what to say to him, though there was something plainly needed to be said. In the end, he saved her.

"Might I come to your sitting room at the end of the day?" he asked, rather timidly.

She nodded, wondering if she'd ever be able to get another sentence out.

"Yes," she replied haltingly, "If we ever get through tonight."

It returned to him that they were in the midst of the busiest night of the year. He nodded briskly but his pace leaving her standing in the sitting room did not match it.

**What do you think? **


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for your lovely reviews so far!**

She waited tensely in her sitting room for him to arrive; not quite sure if her edginess was due to what had happened between them earlier that evening or because it was well nigh half past two in the morning. Listening to the backward and forwarding of the clock she sighed, sitting forward with her elbows on her knees and leaning into the back of her chair alternately. After what seemed like a tired age, a small knock on the door came. Suddenly taken by a futile- given that Miss O'Brien of all people had walked in on them- need for secrecy, she walked to the door and opened it rather than calling admittance. Charles, looking decidedly weary entered the room, mirroring her silence at least until the door was shut on them.

Enclosed in her little sitting room, they were at a loss for sensible things to say, rather predictably if the rest of the night was anything to go by.

"Might I have a seat?" he asked politely.

"Of course," she gestured to any in the room, feeling foolish that she hadn't offered him one before, given that he looked all but dead on his feet.

While, during his not infrequent visits to her sitting room, he usually took a seat on the settee he sank instead into the nearest available seating facility which happened to be her armchair by the fire. He didn't seem to notice however, a comfortable sigh escaping his lips as he took the weight off his legs. She smiled a little in spite of her confusion to see him comforted.

Still she loitered, unsure of what would be appropriate to say, unsure of what she even wanted to. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, unhelpfully. How do I get myself into these things?- she wondered wildly, ridiculous girl. Except she was hardly a girl any more; she'd have thought she'd have learned somewhere down the line, but clearly not.

He cleared his throat minutely and it struck her that- berating herself- she had once again allowed her mind to wander; paradoxically, what had got them into this uncomfortable situation in the first place. She found she had perched herself on the arm of the settee.

"What happened between us? In the sitting room?"

Well, it seemed that she'd moved rather mercilessly from the dumbness of extreme procrastination to getting straight to the point. Typical, and it looked as if it had done nothing to quell the edgy atmosphere. He cleared his throat again.

"I... You...You asked me to dance, if I remember correctly."

Had she? All she could firmly recall was the warmth of his chest as she pressed her head to his waistcoat. Yes, she reflected, she probably had been the pushy one. And they had danced, she remembered, round in a little circle, holding one another. And she had felt a strong inclination not to let go.

"And, did you...?" she began, not quite sure how she could pose the question she really wanted to ask, "Did you feel...?"

There was no way to put it without sounding... presumptuous, provocative. She hoped he would catch her meaning without her having to say it, hoping that her face would tell him as much.

"Did I feel what?"

Typical man, he needed it spelling out to him!

"I don't know!" she thought wildly in the moment's pause she gave herself, "Did you feel... were you happy? Did you feel like you wanted to stay? With me," she clarified hopelessly.

Waiting tremulously for his answer it felt as if a whole lifetime passed. She bit at the inside of her lip.

"Yes, Elsie," he confirmed quietly, "Yes, I was and yes, I did."

Right, she thought, where to now? What she still wanted to say was...

He looked as if there was something else he wanted to say too, but couldn't quite find the words and, if he could, he couldn't quite get them out. He was a butler; a propensity to find himself in such a predicament was practically a requirement of the job. Again, paradoxically, one of the things she found she liked best about him was something that made situations like these all the more difficult.

"Elsie?"

And she had done it again. She snapped back down to earth, and threw him a distracted attempt at a smile in reply. He appeared to be watching her intently.

"What are you thinking?" he asked. His tone made it sound as if he was almost imploring; maybe she was being _that _frustrating.

And it was a good question! After a moment she smiled at him properly this time.

"I'm wondering why we don't dance more often," she informed him.

Well, that was one way of putting it. Stop it!- she berated herself, you're acting like an enamoured adolescent!

"Probably because your poor toes would get tired of being trodden on," he answered.

She hadn't noticed any particular clumsiness on his part before, but then she hadn't exactly been looking for it.

"I don't think I'd mind, not very much anyway."

Saints preserve them, she was being coy! And it felt like she was grinning for all to see like a village idiot. That was probably why conversation had ground to a halt. Her mind turned cartwheels trying to find something vaguely intelligent to say. Charles was looking at her with some concern.

"Are you all right?" he asked with a frown.

"Perfectly," she lied.

"Are you sure? You look rather warm."

"Well, it's quite warm in here, don't you think?"

She started to fan herself with her hand. The words "final", "nail" and "coffin" sprang to mind. This seemed to do nothing to put Charles at ease; he sighed really rather heavily.

"Elsie," he began slowly, as if still expect a sharp slap in the face for addressing her so informally, "What did you mean by asking me to dance?"

And that, she supposed, was the root of the problem. Why had she? She hadn't given it so much a thought, she just had. The music had been playing and he had been there looking so lost and making her feel lost too and she had just wanted him to hold her- dancing had just been her excuse for it. And truth be told it hadn't been the first time she'd thought it might be nice for him to take her in his arms. But how to explain that to him without sounding alarming at best? Looking at his face, she saw that falsehood was not an option, she had to be honest. But how honest, exactly? She looked at her hands clasped in her lap.

"You looked lost," she began rather hopelessly, "That's to say, I thought you might like to... I felt... You looked like you needed someone," she finally managed, "Forgive me if I'm being too personal, but you looked like you might need someone to just... dance with you. Hold you," as she had gone that far, she might as well use the verb that she really meant.

He was quiet, perhaps expecting more.

"Did you?" she asked, feeling daring, "Was I right?"

At first, she didn't think he would respond. Then, she half expected him to berate her forwardness. But he only exhaled slowly.

"I suppose you could say that," he conceded.

"So you forgive me presuming, then?" she checked.

"Certainly I do," he assured her, as if she was being silly, "Thank you, Elsie. I mean it; thank you for being able to read my mind on this occasion."

She smiled at her knees again. The household often joked about the butler and housekeeper being able to second guess each other's next moves. That struck a note in her memory.

"Miss O'Brien," she reminded him, "Do you think she'll say anything?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. Fair point; it was like asking if the sky was blue.

"I wouldn't be all that surprised if the house hasn't pronounced us man and wife by now," he remarked dryly.

She tried not to flinch.

"You'd have thought they'd find better food for gossip than us two," she forced a lightness into her tone that she did not feel.

"If scandal is to their taste we hardly give them a feast," he acknowledged.

That could be changed, said the nagging voice in her head. Whatever was causing that voice, she wished she could hit it on the head with a saucepan; it was doing nothing for her composure. And he was frowning at her again.

"I'm fine," she told him without being asked this time and not particularly expecting hi to believe her.

He didn't.

"Elsie," he began, "Do you need... someone to hold you?"

She sniffed and rubbed her nose with her hand.

"At least I had the subtlety to call it 'dancing'" she admonished gently.

He took that as a yes and left his chair, wrapping his arms around her where she sat. They stayed like that for a few moments before he planted a kiss in her hair.

**More? Anyone who has any ideas/requests about this, they will be welcomed and considered, as deciding upon a feasible plot is not my strong point. Please tell me what you think of this too. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Yes, I admit, Carson did borrow a line from Jean Brodie in the last chapter. In my defence, and his, he changed it a little bit.**

**1.**

"You don't believe me, do you?" the lady's maid asked, hands on her hips and irritated that- having risen early to deliver her news to the cook- that it was met by decidedly unimpressed ears.

Mrs Patmore turned over the bread dough she was kneading.

"All I'm saying is that holding hands is 'ardly the most scandalous thing you could have caught them doing," she pointed out, "By the way you were carrying on before you'd 'ave expected them to have been kissing at least."

"But this is Mrs Hughes," Sarah reminded her pressingly, "Carson and Mrs Hughes. When it's them holding hands is tantamount to a proposal of marriage!"

Kneading the bread again, Mrs Patmore raised an eyebrow but said didn't exactly appear convinced. Sarah turned her back to rest against the large table.

"I still say it, there's something between those two," she declared.

"So you keep saying."

"And she has the brass neck cheek to tell me not 'ave any suitors, when she goes round..."

"Holding people's hands," Mrs Patmore finished for her, "You see what I mean, it doesn't sound all that racy when you put it like that. Has it occurred to you that she was just... sorting out his cuff or something."

Miss O'Brien snorted.

"Since when do you stick up for _her_?"

"I only like to get my facts right before I go putting my foot in it," the cook informed her, dividing the dough neatly in two.

That was the first she'd heard of it, though she didn't feel like arguing the point.

"You'd do best to keep your nose out of it, Sarah," Mrs Patmore told her wisely, "It's well enough to gossip about the likes of poor Mr Bates, he can't do anything to harm you, but once you go for the housekeeper, that's a different matter; she can. She and Mr Carson are your betters, even if they don't act like it, that's what I'm saying. Now, where's that fool girl?"

Displeased with the reception she had received; Sarah left the kitchen before Mrs Patmore returned from finding Daisy to repeat to her how ridiculous she was.

**2.**

"Elsie? What on earth are you doing?"

He asked it in a hushed voice and he was grateful for it, for almost instantly she pressed a finger to her lips.

"Shh," she told him, indicating with her head towards the kitchen.

She had concealed herself rather snugly in the alcove behind the kitchen and was apparently listening intently to something. To what he couldn't quite catch; she seemed to have the ears of a bat to be able to keep a grasp on the conversation. He stood there a moment watching her expression; it fluctuated to and fro between worry and mild amusement. All of a sudden, a look of alarm passed over her features.

"Get in here, quickly."

"What?"

She grabbed his arm and pulled him swiftly into the alcove. He was just about to ask her what on earth she was playing at when he found her hand pressed firmly over his mouth. Even more confused, he could only dumbly wait either for her to enlighten him or to allow him to speak. However, her purpose was shortly made plainer: the sharp sound of an irritated footfall was followed by a passing figure in black. Once able to catch a good look at their intruder, he perceived it to be Miss O'Brien, again. Fortunately, this time, her irritation seemed to be such that she passed them too quickly to notice them, concealed as they were from her direct line of vision. When her footsteps died down he found the hand removed from his mouth.

Letting out a sigh or relief he saw that Elsie was looking rather guilty.

"You really have the ears of a bat, don't you?" he asked.

She shot him half a grin in response.

"Less of the 'bat', thank you. I get enough of that from the rest of the staff."

She hardly noticed how inane the question and answer were: the alcove only allowed a limited amount of space for two people to share.

"Who was she talking to?" he wanted to know.

They did not feel the need to clarify what Miss O'Brien had been talking about.

"Mrs Patmore," Elsie told him.

"And?" his tone was anxious.

"She was surprisingly unimpressed. She thought us rather tame, I think," she added and then giggled in spite of herself.

He looked as if he meant to be stern.

"Sorry," she apologised, "I suppose you were right, we're hardly the first choice when they want a scandal."

He laughed a little too.

"We ought to cater to demand a little."

Was it him or her who just said that?- she wondered. She had been thinking it certainly, but the guilty expression on his face told her differently. Suddenly their proximity became very apparent to both of them. Although his response wasn't necessarily provocative, they both seemed to have taken it to have been. Carefully she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Ought we?" she asked, a testy edge in her voice that she couldn't quite help.

She realised that she was probably being coy again; it was a bit early in the day for that, wasn't it? He seemed to be reaching near mortal embarrassment.

"Forgive me, Elsie," he murmured, casting his eyes down; apparently forgetting that she was much smaller than him and could see his expression all the better from there.

His eyes were closed anyhow, seeming to be waiting for a slap in the face. Again. He really had to stop doing that. She waited, waited for him to peer anxiously at her before she spoke. This is what, she thought, you got for asking for a dance.

"Charles," she began, being sure to sound gentle, "Are you trying to tell me something?"

The alcove behind the kitchen was hardly the place for this, but it was a bit late for that now.

"Probably," he conceded weakly, with a worn out smile.

She peered up at him.

"Sitting room, again, tonight?" she asked.

Somehow her hand hand found its way to his arm. After a moment's thought he nodded.

"Right," she squeezed his elbow briefly, "Now let's get out of here. Before we cause a household crisis."

She saw him smirk as she left the alcove first. He waited a second and then followed.

Returning to the kitchen, Sarah O'Brien wondered what on earth the butler and housekeeper had been doing in such a confined space together and wondered how Mrs Patmore could talk them out of that when she told her.

**3.**

She considered putting a record on that evening before he arrived. Lady Edith's old- well, it was practically brand new, but she'd got tired of it- record player was presently living in Elsie's sitting room. No, she thought, that smacked of inviting him to dance and given what their idea of dancing seemed to be, it was nothing short of a come-on. But then, she asked herself, wasn't that exactly what she was trying to do? Stopping to think a moment about the implications of that idea, she wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

He didn't knock this time, but let himself in rather meekly. She smiled at him as best she could- her head all the while doing loop-the-loops- and gestured him to sit. He sat on the settee this time and she sat beside him. They were silent for a little while; he looked very tired, she thought. But then, she reminded herself, they had been very busy the previous night and throughout the day making sure that the guests were all seen to and packed ready to leave tomorrow. She felt the inclination to rest her head on his shoulder, but did not quite dare. That was ridiculous, they were here, in this meek suspended state of dumbness because of _his _forward remark! But then, they had been hovering in that alcove because of her forward requests the night before- was it only last night that this madness started! She was so confused!

He, she noticed, was watching as she was swept away by the sheer torrent of her own thoughts. Poor soul, she thought, I must appear rather at odds and ends to him. She cleared her throat minutely, remembering why they were there. Smiling at the first thing that came to her eye line; his knee:

"We don't seem to be very good at being scandalous, do we?"

Inconveniently, she conceded to herself, they were just too much of housekeeper and butler for it. She looked up from his knee to his face, expecting to see the same expression of resignation held in his expression as hers, but she did not. He was looking at her rather oddly, but she didn't get the chance to say so before he kissed her, and not lightly either. For a moment, she didn't quite know what had hit her and was quite stunned but then, feeling the comfortable warmth of his lips, kissed back.

They broke apart quite breathlessly, her mind still hopelessly trying to find its bearings. Her senses coming to a bit of a halt, she laughed a little. He looked at her curiously.

"That dull, was it?" he asked.

She hoped he was joking, but-knowing him- he had probably taken her laughter to heart.

"No, no, no, you silly man!"

She all but exclaimed it. Her hand had found its way to the knee she had been staring at moments before.

"Ridiculous man, you're just... you've made be a bit giddy, is all," she admitted.

She thought she caught him smiling a little at that.

"Don't you go getting too pleased with yourself for that," she warned him, "As you've probably seen since yesterday, it doesn't take much to make me behave giddily."

She grinned to show she was joking. Her hand brushed the side of his face fondly, then moved to fiddle with his hair.

"But," she continued, "In between us causing these major "scandals" you might give me the chance to tell you... you make me happy Charles. Especially when you dance with me."

His hand moved to where her smaller one played casually with his hair, covering it entirely and bringing it to his mouth so he could kiss her palm. She knew he had to have heard her breath shudder but hoped he couldn't otherwise tell that her heart had missed a beat.

"And when you kiss me," she admitted. Her voice was strangely choked.

He pushed her back into the settee a little as he kissed her again.

**Please review if you have the time: ideas, comments, criticisms, requests... all welcomed! Most importantly, do you want me to continue?**


	4. Chapter 4

Waking the next morning on the settee in her pantry she was a little dismayed to find herself alone but at least she knew it hadn't all been a dream from the very fact she was there rather than in her bed. She hadn't been kissed like that in years, she thought to herself in the servants' hall. Had she _ever _been kissed like that? Wanting to smile rather mischievously, she bit her lip to prevent herself; the last things she needed was for someone to ask her why she was grinning like an idiot at the breakfast table. She should be doing the rounds on the first floor, checking that everyone was doing as they should be but she couldn't bring herself to, she was too content by far to sit at the table replaying last night's events in her mind. Not that they were sordid- far from it- he had been the perfect gentleman for the most part. And suddenly she felt like a lovestruck school girl. How on earth was she going to get through breakfast sitting beside him?

Miss O'Brien, looking her usual chirpy self, all but threw herself into the chair opposite. Oddly, it made Elsie all the more cheerful; though perhaps it was because the lady's maid seemed to be in a particularly fowl mood rather than her presence.

"Have you seen to her Ladyship, Miss O'Brien?" she asked pointedly and received a very brusque answer.

"Yes."

Heavens, Elsie thought, she's glowering at me even more than usual! She reached forward for her cup of tea and surveyed her colleague over it.

"Anything the matter, Miss O'Brien?"

Why she was consciously trying to wind up such a tricky creature, she had no idea, but she was enjoying it immensely. She received another contemptuous stare.

"I'm fine. Thank you."

Someone had decidedly but a bee in Miss O'Brien's bonnet, she thought. It made quite a change to be the smug one in a conversation such as this.

"Spoken to Mrs Patmore lately?"

Dangerous, dangerous territory, Elsie. Miss O'Brien's head snapped up at the question. Although Elsie tried to organise her face into a neutral expression as if she hadn't overheard the conversation between the two women the previous morning, she probably didn't manage it. It earned her all the deeper a frown.

"Just now," The lady's maid seemed sour at the thought.

Didn't she believe you? Again?- Elsie thought.

"How is Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes?" The question was asked with the force of a smack.

Only when she was brought firmly back down to earth did she realise how elated she had been moments before. I probably deserved that, Elsie reflected, wondering how on earth she was going to answer to that one without accidentally giving too much away. Once again, Miss O'Brien held the power to be smug between the pair.

**2.**

Things only got worse from there. Put down from her good mood by Miss O'Brien's snappy retort, she went about the business of the day in a much more sober frame of mind, thinking, for the first time really, just what was happening between the butler and herself. Laid out in cold prose it sounded rather ludicrous: in a moment of madness she had asked him to dance and they had been caught out in a compromising position; leading to them eavesdropping on colleagues in a very confined space; which, one way or another, lead to them kissing on her settee that same night. It all sounded very... well, hasty for one thing. Lying all but beneath him last night she had hardly had any complaints, but now she realised things seemed to be going very fast. She could not remember a single word being said about their feelings for one another. She suddenly felt very old indeed.

And what did she feel for him, anyway, if the question came up? She thought back to when she had seen him standing in the library. She had seen him looking sad and it made her feel a soft tinge of sadness too, and she had wanted, somehow, to reach out to him. That she knew for certain. But what more than that? They stuck up for one another whenever either was challenged, yes, and they often liked to spend a quiet evening together. She liked his quiet sense of humour, it differed from yet matched her own. She purposely sought him out when she knew they were both taking an afternoon off. They even knew when the other wanted to be left alone, seldom though it was. She like the way he had kissed her. Very much.

Oh no, she thought suddenly, I can't! I'm far too old to have gone and fallen... She groaned to herself a little. Yes, she thought, too old by far.

But then, her mind wandering back again to the night before, lying very very close beside him, him still kissing her softly on the neck. He'd have only had to ask and she'd have... A bit a brandy in her and she'd have probably had his shirt without him having to give her an invitation! And it frightened her. Not her her lack of inhibition under the influence of brandy, but her lack of inhibition under his influence. She had certainly never felt like that before.

Then the image of Miss O'Brien's contemptuous face from that morning at the breakfast table swam before her eyes. She hadn't only detected Miss O'Brien's displeasure that someone other than herself was being happy. It wasn't only the threatening edge to her tone, although that should probably be her biggest worry. One casual word from Miss O'Brien and her Ladyship would know and even if she, like Mrs Patmore, chose not to believe her maid, she may become curious and that could lead to all manner of trouble. No, what really spooked Elsie was the mocking in the girl's tone. It couldn't be plainer that Miss O'Brien found the idea of the whole... affair utterly ridiculous, and it couldn't be denied that it hurt her, though why she was letting Miss O'Brien's opinion get to her she didn't know. She supposed she could see her point; it was rather ridiculous that people as old as them were thinking off-... But perhaps it was only her who was seriously thinking of it.

What seemed to have developed during the course of her thoughts, rather than any of the desired clarity, was a great void of potential for her to get hurt. It was a harsh contrast to the safety of the hold she had felt, swaying backward and forward in his arms with The Carnival of Venice humming in the background. Until she was more certain in her mind of which course of action, if such an expression was correct in this case, there was only one thing she could really do. And that was something she really didn't want to.

**3.**

That night she retired early. She did so quietly, not wishing to declare that she was "off to bed", not wanting to seem to be even more forward than she'd already been, not thinking she could quite stand the raise of Miss O'Brien eyebrows that the remark would doubtlessly earn her. She left the table as she usually did with little ceremony, but instead of going to her sitting room went straight up the stairs and turned out her light as soon as possible so as not to leave doubt in the mind of anyone loitering in the corridor that she didn't want to be disturbed. It took conscious and driving effort but she managed it. And she managed it every night for a week.

**You probably all think I've gone mad, don't you? Don't worry, I will start to depress myself if I make things go **_**too **_**badly for them, so things will probably be looking up next chapter. Please review. **


	5. Chapter 5

**1.**

It was a hard week to get through, there was no doubt about that. Apart from anything else he was quite confused as to why she was apparently studiously avoiding him. Perhaps, he thought, he had been too pushy- things had been accelerating at a rather rapid pace- but, truly, he had not noticed any particular desire for hesitation on her part. Quite the reverse. And now they had scarcely spoken for a week outside their working hours. In the brief moments that they had found themselves alone about the house he had tried to gage anything that could tell him what had offended her so in her actions or expression, but she was far too distant to give anything much away.

It was silly; there had been two single nights in which their affections for one another had seemed to extend beyond the ordinary, but now that they were withdrawn he found it hard to stand. But it wasn't, he reminded himself, only their new found levels of affection, of intimacy, that had been withdrawn: they were no longer sharing tea in the evenings as they were used to; nor exchanging friendly, almost conspiratorial remarks at odd moments through the course of the day. He hadn't previously realised how much they made his day complete. Mealtimes were awkward, her avoiding his gaze and leaving in haste. And that night, exactly a week after her standoffishness began, he found he could stand it no longer and walked to her sitting room with a clear purpose in mind.

**2.**

She might have known that the first night she dared to visit her sitting room before bed her plan would be undone. From the knock on the door she knew who it would be. For a moment she considered pretending not to be there but knew the beam of light under the door would give her away: she never left the gas light on when she wasn't there.

"Come in," she called, reluctantly.

He entered silently, closing the door behind him gently. Turning to the door to watch him come through it, once he stood there with his back against it she found she couldn't look at him and watched the carpet carefully. He would have to talk, she was too confused by far.

"At least tell me what I've done, Elsie. Please."

Oh no, she thought, don't plead with me whatever you do! Don't make me say what I feel, there's too much. She did her best to raise her head.

"Nothing, Charles," giving half a bitter laugh, "You've done nothing wrong."

She was looking back at the floor but knew he would be frowning his confusion out.

"Have I been remiss in my actions?"

Did he think that she'd playing hard to get this past week?

"No," she tried to assure him.

"Then what, Elsie?" he asked, "What? Please tell me." 

She sighed, finally looking up. He had come forward a little and was standing before her as opposed to against the door. His expression was gentle as opposed to cross, as he had every right to be, hurt as opposed to angry. He was genuine in thinking that it was he who was at fault. God in heaven, she thought, I do love him! How hadn't she realised before now?

"Do you really want to know?" she asked exasperatedly.

His expression, deadly serious, answered for him.

"Don't you know that the whole house finds us ridiculous?" she asked, rather more crossly than she had meant to.

His face dropped a whole notch as she hurt him as deftly as any remark could. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to cry. They were uncomfortably silent for a moment. Then:

"The whole house?" he asked quietly, seeking clarification, "The whole house is aware of our... our activities?"

She thought a moment.

"Well, no."

"Is it _only _Miss O'Brien?" he asked.

"She will have told _someone_," she stressed in her defence, "I can guarantee it."

"But has anyone else said anything?" he pushed on.

"No." 

"So it is _just _Miss O'Brien?"

"Well, yes."

She really didn't know what he was going to say next. He looked so lost, like he had that night just over a week ago- although it seemed as if a lifetime, and a difficult one at that, had passed since then. She badly wanted just to be able to put her arms around him again, but she didn't think it would be as appreciated this time.

"I'd like to think," he confessed slowly, "That I might mean more to you than Miss O'Brien's opinion does."

So it was his turn to stab her in the heart with a remark. She bristled a little.

"You don't know what you mean to me!" she told him sharply.

"No," he admitted, "I don't."

The talk came to a dawdling halt at his admission. Elsie realised her interjection had left her a little breathless. The last time she'd been breathless was when he'd kissed her. She really didn't need to be thinking about that now. She tried to count to ten but was interrupted on six.

"Elsie," he began cautiously, "I realise that my actions may have seemed very forward and perhaps rather hasty and for that I apologise, but I didn't think my attentions seemed altogether... unwelcome."

Oh heavens, they weren't!

Stop it, she told herself, stop it!

"Elsie?" he asked, "Please say something."

"Charles," she began very, very slowly, "Please try to understand that you are so very dear to me. You have done nothing at all to offend me or upset me, but I cannot have my feelings ridiculed. It hurts," she heard her voice slip a bit higher, "It hurts because we're both being laughed at."

"And you thought that if you tried to stop... us, they would stop laughing?" he finished for her.

She could only nod.

"Elsie, my dear, you have to realise that whether we appear to be in the grip of passion or fighting like an old married couple, Miss O'Brien would probably laugh at us anyway."

That was certainly true.

"Yes."

She smiled weakly, nodding.

Looking up toward his face, she saw he was frowning sympathetically at him, Seeking to reassure him, she widened her smile a touch. Uncertainly he held his arms out to her and she well nigh fell into them. He heal her tightly, like she had found she had missed over this past week. And in that moment, her life wasn't her own. It was in the hands or her heart and being thrown it the air to fall into chaos like petals in the wind. She wanted to kiss him, but his embrace prevented her reaching his mouth. So she kissed his waist coated chest. He responded by taking her by the hand a sitting them side by side on the settee, kissing her on the mouth at last. His hand lingered politely in hers, too gentlemanly by far, and she casually guided it over her leg allowing him to rest it between her knee and her thigh. She heard him groan as his lips moved from hers and to her neck. Her eyes shut, she heard her own quiet voice.

"I've loved you for so long, Charles. God help me, but I'd didn't even know it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She wanted increasingly to cry in her withheld emotion and bitter-sweet happiness as he eased her back to lie down, whispering that he loved her too.

**Please review and tell me if I've done this chapter remotely well, I always worry about writing emotion stuff, probably because real life emotion frightens me a bit. Do you want any more of this as I have some thin- but present- ideas?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Right, I don't think I've ever written anything quite as racy as this before, though it's not that much worse than "Exactly", and I'm not sure if it's any good, so be warned. It's pushing at a strong T, so don't read if it's not your thing. Please tell me how I do, if you do read it though. **

So they went on, from day to day, loving each other and trying to maintain discretion while doing so. No one appeared to notice much; they were used to the butler and housekeeper spending time together outside of working hours and were none the wiser to the change in their particular activities while alone. Now and then Elsie thought she caught Miss O'Brien throwing them the odd wary glance but, remembering what Charles had had to say on the matter, resigned herself not to mind. And they were happy; Elsie had not felt so content with the pattern of everyday life for years, if she ever had done. It was nice to feel that she could really be open with someone: even though she had previously thought she could be with him, looking back there had always been the vague unspoken haze to be avoided- the elephant in the room- of what they felt for one another.

He scarcely ever missed an evening in her pantry. In any case he would have called around to check that the business of the day had been in order or just to say goodnight, but every evening he lingered now; for tea, to talk or to hold her. It was as much a part of their day as polishing the silver or checking the linen rotation. They would turn out the main light and draw the curtains so that the room was left dark apart from the lamp and fire, leaving them in a sleepy kind of half shade. As the weather got colder they would put more coal on the fire or sit closer together for warmth.

And, of course, they would kiss. Though both reserved by nature, once their feelings had been made clear they were much more liberated in their actions. He, ever the gentleman, worried that she asked him to lie on top of her because of the difference in their sizes, but she liked to feel the weight of him over her; there was some definite security in it. It was pure feeling, which she realised now that she had been lacking for most of her life. Although she had managed without it for so many years, that feeling, she found now that she had come to crave it, depend upon it.

One evening in particular, she needed it.

They had both had a tiring day, a petty squabble among the footmen- three guesses who had been the cause- had lead to them both having to keep an eye on several rather irate young men for the better part of the day, leaving them less time than usual to carry out their own work. It was, however, finally over and they retired to her sitting room with relief. The fatigue made her feel quite melancholy and she was intensely grateful to find his arm draped lazily round her without his waiting for permission. She gladly leant in towards him and rested her head on his chest, hearing and feeling him sigh.

"Do you ever feel like our job sometimes boils down to playing parents to some very stubborn children?" he asked wearily.

She smiled a little.

"Sometimes," she admitted.

Her arm reached to stretch possessively across his middle. She felt him reach down, meaning to kiss the top of her head but as she bowed her head at the same time, he ended up planting the kiss on the skin at the top of her neck. She moaned softly. Feeling his hands on her shoulders she allowed him to sit her up, only hoping that he might kiss her again. That he did, letting her sit back against the settee, almost sitting in his lap now, he kissed at her neck. Perhaps it was her state of tiredness, but the effect he was having on her somehow seemed to exaggerate itself. When he drew back she murmured her displeasure. Then she noticed where his eyes were lingering; on the buttons at her throat. He seemed somehow to be requesting her permission. She undid them herself and was glad when his lips returned, warm on her cold skin.

She wanted more, there was no doubt about it. But she couldn't quite bring herself to say as much. So, cautiously, she moved her hips gently so that she moved just a fraction against his his lap. It couldn't have been move effective if she'd tried; groaning audibly, he all but scooped her up to lie her flat on the settee- weight comfortably settled over her. This time he kissed her lips first before returning to kiss her exposed breastbone.

"More, Charles."

She didn't mean to say it, but nor did she really regret it either. Probably hearing the tremor in her voice, he withdrew a moment, looking her in the eye.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

She pulled his head back to hers and kissed him passionately. Surprisingly undeterred by her action, once they broke apart he resumed looking at her with a serious expression. His question was wordlessly repeated.

"You don't know how much I need you, Charles," she told him quietly, surprised that she was actually able to.

She reached for the buttons at his collar; his tie had already been removed by him.

"Oh, I think I do."

His voice was even lower than usual. His shirt was almost unbuttoned by now. She shifted under him, opening her legs a touch. Shirt discarded, he bowed his head, making her tremble as she felt his breath on her bosom.

"Have you ever... before?" he asked, curious.

She nodded haltingly. Her face looked suddenly pained.

"Elsie?"

"Once," she told him, "With... with the man who asked me to marry him."

Her arms had settled possessively round his back. Her breathing was deep and he got the impression that she was trying hard to regulate it.

"Elsie?"

"Charles, please. Don't make me beg you."

His arms partially supporting his weight, he shifted them a little lower, his hand able to brush at her breast through her dress. He felt her tremble. Encouraged, he repeated the action. She shifted restlessly beneath him.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Sitting up, she bit her lip.

"Would you do that, if I weren't wearing my dress?" she asked, as if taking a liberty.

He responded by reaching a hand to her hip and gently turning her round to sit before him so he could undo the hooks on the garment. It fell away easily. Then he was faced with her corset. Not wanting to have to ask verbally this time he planted a soft hesitant kiss just above it. Her shoulder blades arched in response. He took that as a yes. Once the garment was undone, he eased her out of it, turning her back over, wanting to look at her. She seemed shy under his gaze, lying beneath him again.

"You're beautiful, Elsie," he told her.

"Please, Charles," she whispered.

He resumed kissing her neck, but did not remain there long, moving in a trail to kiss her breasts. He heard her gasp. He paused, not wanting overwhelm her, wrapping an arm around her bare waist and drawing her close to him. He heard her breath hitch almost into a sob above his head. He had to draw back. She had her eyes closed.

"Elsie, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing, Charles," she insisted.

"Why do you look about ready to cry then?" he whispered, leaning over her ear.

The words seemed to need a great effort both to be found and to then be said.

"Because it wasn't like this before," she confessed, "It wasn't at all like this. It was so much quicker... we weren't as, as close, or as thorough. He didn't exactly take his time," she concluded, not looking him in the eye.

He had a feeling he knew what she was trying to tell him but was too embarrassed to say it directly.

"You mean he didn't take his time to... to satisfy you?" he asked hesitantly.

She nodded, unable to speak.

"Are you frightened, Elsie?" he asked quite seriously.

"A little," she confessed.

He moved to plant a single kiss at the base of her neck.

"Don't be," he told her, "Just close your eyes." 

Feeling her hand on the back of his head, he plant another kiss on her neck, before progressing downwards again.

She felt him kissing at her navel, the knot in her stomach growing tighter and tighter. Feeling him stop, she opened her eyes, looking down at him. His hands rested on her hips, gently on the cotton of her underskirt. She nodded and raised her hips so he could remove the garment. She felt very exposed to him in only her barest undergarments. The sensation of his mouth trailing down past her navel made her shiver a little in anticipation.

She gasped as she felt his hand brush her through the cloth.

"Charles," she inanely murmured his name, unable to do anything else.

"Shh."

Cautiously lifting the fabric, he planted a single kiss between her hip and her groin. Her breathing hitched again then fell. Hooking his finger beneath the waistband, he drew them further down until they were off, leaving her bare before him.

"I love you so much, Elsie," he whispered into her skin.

Gently slipping his hands between her knees, he parted her legs, brushing his hand up the inside of her thigh as he did so.

She couldn't stop herself gasping as he touched her intimately again, one hand holding her hip steady while the other brushed slowly back and forth between her legs. Biting her lip as she felt him slip a finger inside of her.

"Charles, I don't think I can..."

"You don't have to," he whispered, understanding her meaning.

Moving his fingers with increasing speed he felt her tighten around him rapidly, crying out a little as she came. He heard her ragged breathing as she rode out the sensation, him holding her close, kissing her delicate waist. Feeling her breathing slow down, he gradually moved back up the settee so that their eyes were level.

"I've never seen anything more beautiful," he told her, not knowing whether her flush was due to exertion or self-consciousness.

"Thank you, Charles," she murmured.

He kissed her, gathering her up into his arms and pulling the rug that stayed on the back of the settee over them.

"You're welcome, my love. Sleep now."

She seemed surprised, shifting her hands on his chest.

"What about you?" she asked.

"You're exhausted," he pointed out, "I can wait until next time."

She wasn't going to deny her exhaustion but she raised and eyebrow.

"If there's one thing I know, it's the need of a man," she reminded him quietly.

"Later," he whispered in her ear, "I promise, I can wait."

"I love you so much, Charles," she whispered to him.

He kissed her on the forehead as she drifted off.

**Please review if the fancy takes you.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Note about raciness from the previous chapter applies here too. **

**1.**

In her first moments of waking it occurred to her that it had all been a dream. It wouldn't be the first time, she thought ruefully, moving her arm to rub one of her eyes. Something brushed against her elbow as she did so. Stretching her eyes a little, she saw that she had just accidentally elbowed Charles in the head, but thankfully hadn't woken him. It was then that she noticed that she wasn't wearing any clothes and felt herself flush a little, rather absurdly, remembering precisely how that came to be the case. Wrapped in the rug she kept over the cushions, they lay nicely squashed together on the settee in the morning half-light. Not a dream, then.

She was more than content to lie there quietly, arms around him, until he began to stir. His hair was a little tousled as he sat up, taking in his surroundings. She watched his expression as carefully as she could until he bowed his head and planted a single kiss on the pale skin of her breast. It wasn't, she had a feeling, pale for much longer; it felt on fire under his lips. He let out the tinniest groan, only audible to her because of how close she was.

"Good morning," she whispered to him, a hint of amusement in her tone.

"Yes," he replied simply.

She laughed a little as he kissed her again. They were silent for a few more moments, just holding each other watching the light from the crack between the curtains moving higher and higher.

"We can't stay here forever," she reminded him, "Much as I'd like to."

He heard her but didn't reply. He was reluctant to let go.

"Charles," she said softly, nudging her arm a little where his hand held it.

When he did let go it was begrudgingly. As she was a little abashed by her lack of garments, he thought it only fair to let Elsie take the rug. He lay on his side on the settee watching her as she pottered around, holding it up in a ridiculous kind of tartan dress. Catching his eye she smiled wearily.

"I must look a right sight," she remarked.

"Yes," he agreed, mentally adding the word beautiful into the comment.

She turned at his tone, to find him watching her raptly. He chuckled a little at her face, caught between exasperation and happiness. Watching him lying there, she laughed too for a moment.

"Come to me tonight."

Her voice carried no hint of a joke so he stopped laughing. Nor did it allow any leeway for a refusal; it was an instruction not a question. He sought her eyes, they held the very same as her voice did.

"Only if you're sure," he told her, trying hard to stay gentlemanly in the face of such a welcome proposition.

She scoffed openly at that. She should by definition look ridiculous standing there in a tartan rug, with half her hair down and her hands on her hips. But she was managing not to.

"How could I ever be anything but sure after... after what you...?" she asked incredulously.

"I don't want you to feel under pressure," he told her.

She rolled her eyes, throwing his shirt at him from where it lay on the floor. There was something empowered about her this morning, that he had a sense he could have caused and although she had already scoffed at him twice, he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it.

"Just come here tonight," she instructed him, quite a ruthlessness amid the happiness in her voice, "Otherwise you'll have me thinking that you don't want me at all."

He caught the twinkle in her eye as he picked his shirt up off his face and began to put it on.

**2.**

Needless to say, she didn't get much work done that day. She just couldn't concentrate, her mind kept wandering decidedly away from the straight and narrow. Confining herself chiefly to her sitting room, however, ensured that she did not encounter the butler during working hours as that would have definitely put an end to any prospect of her being able to work at all. Lunch was a difficulty, primarily because it involved having to sit still in close proximity to him for longer than ten seconds. Both kept their eyes fixed on their food, avoiding eye contact. None of their colleagues noticed their behaviour, thank heaven. Elsie only received one comment out of the ordinary during the course of the day; Anna remarked at breakfast time that she was looking remarkably cheerful. She could have sworn she saw Charles grin rather wickedly at that moment and sorely regretted that she couldn't box his ears for it.

After supper, she did what she had been longing to do all day; changed quickly into her nightdress and a large jumper, sat on the settee- covered as it was in a fresh rug- and waited. After a ten minutes that felt like infinity, he didn't knock, but came in quickly, shutting the door tightly behind him. Hearing the click of the handle, she turned to look at him. He was leaning with his back against the door. She smiled at him, shyly, and he smiled back.

"I thought today would never end," he confessed softly, staying next to the door for a moment.

"Nor did I."

He crossed to the settee, and sat down next to her, glad to get the weight off his feet.

"Everyone's gone to bed," he informed her.

"Good."

She heard him sniff appreciatively at her sentiments. They seemed to be waiting for a pop of tension to release them. Both were quiet for a few minutes, hands millimetres apart. She saw him open his mouth, doubtlessly to ask her once again if she was quite convinced that this was what she wanted to be doing. And then the tension went and she was kissing him. And smiling at the same time. She kissed him hard, with all the energy she'd wasted dwelling on moments like these throughout the day. Breaking apart, foreheads resting against each other, she could feel his deep breath meeting with her own. Her hand was somehow slipping its way between his knees. They both looked at it, making no movement either to stop or aid it, heads still toughing, breathing almost in sync. She was sure of what she wanted, there was no point in asking. Tenderly, he reached out, placing his hands on her waist at first, moving them low round her back and hugging her close to him. Brushing her face against his, she felt his nose in her hair and his jaw against hers as he held her.

"I want you, Charles," she whispered in his ear, "Please."

He lay her down on the cushions but didn't lie over her as he usually did; instead removing his tie and his collar. Once he did come closer she made quick work of the shirt. She whimpered a little as he kissed her neck, spreading her legs for him to lie between them, and pressing his head closer to her skin.

"Shh, Elsie, shh," he whispered.

The breath tickled delicately at the fire ignited beneath the surface of her skin.

"Please, Charles."

"Slowly," he told her, "Slowly." 

His left hand played at her bosom as his right reached down towards the skirt of her nightdress. She wriggled, answering his request to remove it and he scooped the dress and the jumper off in one. His hand returned to her breast while the other brushed over her stomach. Her breathing was deep and erratic. He continued kissing the base of her neck and her collar bone. She moaned as his hand brushed the inside of her thigh.

She surprised even herself by reaching for his belt, but he didn't make sure that she was certain; as much was apparent from the decisiveness in her actions. He stood up for a second to remove his trousers and shorts, returning to lie back between her legs, his hands wandering back to her thighs.

"Now, Charles, please."

Denying this could only lead to madness, surely. He didn't need telling twice.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	8. Chapter 8

The sound of his breathing, so very deep, was pure music to her ears. She smiled quite blissfully, feeling his hands roam her back. They had done this nearly every other night for around a month now, even though it made them all the more likely to be caught; it was just so easy. She heard herself gasp quietly as he removed her blouse.

"Charles, we can't go on like this."

He drew back a touch, although his hands still held her arms gently against the wall.

"I know," he conceded, looking oddly dismayed with his head bowed quite grimly.

Wondering if he had somehow misunderstood, she moved onto the balls of her feet and nudged his head a fraction with her own. He opened his eyes which had been tightly shut and she found more than a hint of sadness there.

"I mean we can't go on like _this_," she tapped the wall, which her back was almost pressed up against, gently with the palm of her hand, "I think we should probably move onto the bed. Unless you had other ideas."

She raised her eyebrows coyly, grinning at the relief in his face she glimpsed as he took her by the hand and led her to his bed. Though narrow, it was a rare blessing, it wasn't often that they risked meeting somewhere other than her sitting room. She fell back gladly against the mattress, close to him as it was all the bed permitted.

"What did you think I meant?" she asked between kisses.

He did not answer at first, only pressed her closer to him with his hand on her lower back.

"Charles?" she asked, a little worried by his lack of response.

After another quiet moment:

"I thought you meant we had to stop... us...altogether," he admitted falteringly.

"What on earth gave you that idea?" she asked incredulously.

"You said we couldn't go on," he pointed out evenly, "What was I supposed to think? Elsie, with you, these past few weeks, it's the happiest I've ever been," he couldn't look at her, he felt too vulnerable in his blank honesty, and, deciding it was best to tell her the whole truth; "And I've been waiting for something silly to come along and stop us."

Taking his face in her hands, she gradually moved him to look at her. She bit her lip, wanting to cry at the look on his face. She kissed his forehead and held his head to her chest.

"Charles, I won't leave you. Ever. I promise," she told him.

Very slowly, she felt his arms move up her back as he embraced her.

"Would you marry me then?" he asked, cradling the words, aware of how delicate they were as they tumbled from his mouth.

He felt her arms squeeze him slightly.

"I almost asked you to marry me myself the first night you made love to me," she admitted shyly.

He smiled into her chest.

"Is that a yes?"

She leant away from him, scrutinising him with a mocking incredulity.

"I should have probably said so," she said in a mock-serious tone.

Promising her that she would pay for scoffing at him, he enfolded her in his arms and rolled to lie over her.

**End. **

**Thank you to all of you who have stuck with my story all through my rambling. Please review to tell me what you thought of this chapter or of the story as a whole if you feel so inclined.**


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